Crepuscule

You know, I still dream of them—riding Vespas, chipping golf balls, pluck- ing daisies, smoking pipes, rubbing the bow across a violin, chasing hoops with sticks, wheel-barrowing diamonds, mounting horses, striding gallantly in top hats and slumping sourly in fezes, reclining with crossed ankles, slouching on daisies, crouching on surfboards, erect as rulers in ermine robes: the rabbits of my youth.
The rabbits my father made in the basement of our cottage, blocks of ice tempering the melt, hot bricks even in July.
Chocolate and solid, chocolate and hollow, milk, darker, fruit-tart, white.
I scoured the molds.
Grasping eggs and baskets and carrots and hearts. Scarved, be-aproned, spectacled. Leaping over gardens and brooks and cobblestoned streets. Skipping stones and sleeping chicks.
And how to talk of their ears? Horizontal, leaf like, elongated coffee beans. Vertical, steadfast, at-attention, in profile: tiny, sky-pointing thumbs. Charmingly slumped: folded, floppy, crumpled, crushed. Reclining like the audience, terrified by a show. Wind-whipped ears. Separated, so each ear is distinct, one marching forward, the other leaning back. Drooping down like a young girl’s ponytail.
This is a jaunty rabbit in a jabot. This is a sportive hare in tux and tails. Bunny in ball gown.
Do not be confused: the male is a buck, the female a doe, the baby a kit or kitten. Buck in britches, doe in damask, kit in kitaroy, corduroy, cloth.
Disappointment is disbelief. Growing old and knowing my father will not be waiting beyond the latch. I chew mindlessly these days, stunned from the heat.
All that anticipation and nothing inside.